L’Après-Midi À Paris

It’s 12:37 p.m. in Paris. It’s gray, overcast, but I like it. Not a far cry from yesterday’s weather, but it’s much brighter in the City of Lights today.

We really lucked out with our flat we rented via Air Bnb. I had never booked through the site until this trip, and so far, we have had lovely stays in beautiful flats. They’ve both been great locations, too.

Our flat is on the 6th floor, near Rue De Rivoli. I booked it because it’s close to the hotel I stayed in my second time in Paris, and I was familiar with the area. It’s truly a lovely flat, and big in comparison of French flats/hotel rooms. We have three windows overlooking the city, and though some tourist trap like Tour Eiffel or Sacre Coeur or Musee de Louvre is not directly seen from my window, I enjoy looking at the illuminated store signs, the glowing lights of Tabac shops, and the throngs of people walking along the street. The apartments across the street have balconies surrounded by short iron gates. They are adorned with potted plants, namely green shrubs. I am at the top of our building, and can see almost eye-to-eye with the rooftops. I count the chimney stacks, lined in rows of 12, scattered among the roof. The roofs slant upwards, meet at the top, then slope back down. Most of the windows are drawn, but a few are open, allowing the cool air to come inside and the noise of the city fill their flats.

I’ve watched the occasional Parisian come outside for a smoke, doing just as I am, watching life pass them by. They look around, taking the day in. They glance downwards, watching the street. Hearing the zoom of the street bikes pass by, the impatient honk of drivers en route, and the incessant chatter of friends walking on the street. It probably doesn’t faze them quite like it fazes me. I take it in all, like a deep drag on my metaphorical cigarette.

I told my boyfriend I’d pick up smoking if that’s what it took to get me to Paris. It was half-hearted; I wouldn’t really want to start smoking, but all the Parisians do it. Are they born, inhaling their first earthly breath, then passed a smoke? It’s not condescending. I don’t mind it. My mother smoked all her life. It doesn’t bother me anymore. It seems, like any other city, that it is part of the life and culture here. Much like New York City has a terrible rat problem, Paris has, what I’d assume, an increasing rate of smoking-related issues. I digress…

I found myself staring out the window, again. I get lost in my own thoughts; my mind wanders to the world where I am a local here, strolling the Seine or maybe sitting in a park, writing inside a notebook of the ideas in my heads for novels I’d like to write, but can’t seem to find the inspiration to do so yet.

I am lost in my own delusions, hoping for this city to take me in as a refugee from the life I live back home. I worry that sometimes I place Paris on too high a pedestal, and that I may fall trying to climb upon it. But, there is no harm in dreaming about this city. If I realize this city is not where I belong, contrary to my daydreams, then at least I can be happy that I made one dream happen: I lived in Paris.

I believe it is important to act out on one’s dreams. If my mother was alive, I’m sure I wouldn’t have ever let the dream of moving to Paris come to life. Sadly, it took her death to give me the chances and experiences I never dreamed of happening. I am sorry she died to give me this new life, but I am thankful that I have been given the opportunity to see the world and experience life. I believe she would encourage me to act upon my wishes and dreams, rather than hold me back. I’ve been going through such a tumultuous post-grad life, wondering what is my purpose, what should I do, where should I be—that this one year anniversary of receiving my Bachelor’s degree has been essential for my development into a full-fledged adult. It’s given me the chance to determine if what I had majored in was what I wanted to continue in.

I’m staring at the neighboring apartment again. I’m memorized by its charm, its effortless beauty, its simplicity in nature. I am reminded, once again, that this city is where I must be. It’s offering me a chance to explore my life, and this is a chance I must take.

 

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Now, it’s 12:29 a.m. Midnight in Paris.

We walked nearly 13 miles today to Bercy Village, then to visit Jim Morrison’s grave,then finally ending our day in Montmartre.

We spent some time at Pont Des Artes this evening, waiting for the twinkling lights to appear on Tour Eiffel. Either our view was terrible, or they just didn’t happen tonight.

But what was my favorite was how quiet Paris had became. Of course, there was the normal rustle of city life–cars passing, boats rumbling alone the Seine—but what was my favorite was that as we sat along Pont Des Artes, I watched as couples passed us in their hushed tones, arms locked together, and I fell in love again with this city.